Chapter 30
Reconciliation
Westin Bayshore Hotel in Vancouver, BC Harbour
A month before I had first trekked to Saltspring Island for my month-long writing retreat, I’d sunk into a plush leather cigar chair in the Lobby Bar of Vancouver’s Bayshore Inn. The Bar’s subdued lighting, mellow jazz, and attentive waiters in white shirts, buttoned black vests and bow-ties imbued it with relaxed luxury. As I savoured 10-year-old, Laphroiag Quarter Cask Scotch whisky, and nibbled on cashews and macadamia nuts, I felt as if I’d arrived.
Then chuckled. Have I? Where?
Weary from running a three-day Organizational Mastery workshop for a printing company’s management team, I chewed a knuckle and replayed the workshop in my mind.
The training session had not gone as well as I had hoped. Half the 19 participants had thought it would be a team-building exercise. The other half thought they would do strategic planning. The organizer was out sick; unable to clarify the confusion for the team.
I tried to assure both groups my generic ‘creating’ approach would give them the skills and structure with which to create results of any kind. The strategic planners left pleased; eager to apply what they’d learned. But the team-builders expressed frustration. I promised to send them information about how to apply the workshop content to creating effective teams.
Post workshop, as I sipped the Bayshore’s smoky Islay Scotch, I pondered how I could ensure this kind of confusion did not happen again. So much of a workshop’s success or failure depended on how organizers sold it to their team. My best workshops were ones I had prepped with a short intro session. Or a longer one.
*
Before the Ciba-Geigy retreat at Emerald Lake, I’d flown to Toronto to clarify its purpose and describe activities the team would take part in. The President was keen, as were a couple of team members. The rest were reticent; fearful of mountain activities, especially climbing. I failed to wholly allay their fears — until after lunch.
We had had an outstanding meal at a fancy restaurant in an historical, red brick building. After lunch, as we’d waited outside for a cab, the team’s chat returned to concern about climbing. I noticed six stepped brick shelves skirted the brick walls. I began to boulder up and down and back and forth on them. The ex-pilot joined me. Then the President. After a five or so minutes, the entire team — in their $2500 designer suits and $400 Italian loafers — swarmed the base of the building. We let wide-eyed other parties take the next two cabs. The guys were hooked.
*
I had cut back on organizational workshops six months after Simplicity and Success came out and my personal coaching load increased. Still, something — a nagging urge to make it in The Bigs? Fat fees? Bragging rights? — had prompted me to accept the most-interesting sounding organizational projects. But, even when they went well, I didn’t feel fully gratified. I preferred working with individuals. So, after the printing company workshop, I had retreated to the Lobby Bar to reflect on whether to continue on the two paths.
As I was about to start on my second cut-glass tumbler of the smoky-tasting Islay whisky, my muscles tightened, my gut churned.
Alice!
*
Looking stunning in tailored navy slacks, a beige suit jacket, and ankle-high leather boots, she strolled through the hotel lobby toward the bar. My heart-rate spiked. I gulped a deep breath. In our last contact, she’d called me a liar, fraud, and phony.
“Hi,” she said, smiling down at me. “Fancy meeting you here.”
I swallowed; tried to compose myself.
“Yes. Yes, it is.” I took a breath, gestured at a chair, and said, “Sit? Have a drink?”
“No thanks,” she said. “Let’s go up to my room. I have pictures of Celine I want to show you.”
“Couldn’t you bring them down here?” I said; wary.
“C’mon!” she said, lifting her hands, palm up. “I’m not going to seduce you. Just show you some snapshots.”
I killed my scotch for quick courage, then followed Alice to the elevator.
Her eighth-floor suite had space enough for small workshops she did with educators. On its king-sized bed, she laid photos of Celine, age 2 to 9. Many featured tropical backgrounds. Alice explained they had lived on Kauai for six years. She and her new husband — “a gentle, wise, and caring man” — had developed nature programs for the Hawaiian government.
Her photos brought tears to my eyes. I choked up, thinking of what I had missed — and what might have been — had Alice and made our relationship work.
But, at least we’re back on speaking terms.
During a 30-minute floatplane flight to Saltspring, I sat in the right-hand seat of the single engine Beaver. I put on the headphones the pilot gave me, and listened to chatter between him, air traffic control, and other planes in the area. Alice’s photos of Celine flashed in my mind like a slide show. One hand twitched in time to my elevated heart rate. I nibbled a knuckle on the other and swallowed to moisten my mouth and throat. My excitement and anxiety danced crazily around each other.
*
Three weeks later, during my writing retreat, my cottage phone rang. Alice and Celine were visiting friends on the island. Could they visit me the next day?
“Yes, of course,” I said. “I’d be thrilled.”
I hung up feeling light; excited. But I lay awake most of that night.
Mid-morning, Alice arrived with Celine and two younger girls she’d had with her new husband. The little girls played on the living room rug. Alice and I sat at the circular kitchen table across from each other. We sipped coffee. Chatted cautiously.
Celine stood in the archway between the two rooms. She was tall for her age. Long brunette hair lay across her shoulders. Cherub cheeks. Under a furrowed brow, her gaze flicked between her mom and me. After about 10 minutes, she moved to her Mother’s side and leaned against her. She looked so shy. But, when prompted, she said, “Hi.”
I grinned so hard my cheeks hurt. “Hi, Celine!”
After a few minutes, she edged around her mom and stood between us. She told me she would soon be 10. She’d had a pony in Hawaii. Swam. Snorkeled. Body surfed. Loved her Hawaiian nanny. My heart danced. Tears welled. I listened to Celine’s stories in joy-filled awe. After an hour, they left to catch the Victoria ferry.
A few weeks later, I received a pink, handmade card in the shape of a heart with the handwritten words inside, “I love you, Bruce.”
I sent Celine a 10th birthday card and a small gift; sniffled a tear. My daughter!
*
One Saturday morning, after I had settled on Saltspring full time, I’d sat on my sagging living room couch. A half-full mug of instant coffee added another ring to my much-used pine coffee table. I was deep into Denis Lehane’s mystery novel, Moonlight Mile when I glanced up. Two teen girls walked past my window, then knocked on my kitchen’s sliding glass door. I bookmarked Lehane, set him on the coffee table, then went to the door.
I slid it open to Celine and her friend Roz. At 14 years old, both stood five feet tall. Shoulder length hair. Strong, fit looking in baggy shorts, flip-flops, and loose t-shirts. Roz’s toenails had been painted with half-moons; Celine’s sported rainbows.
Startled, a little breathless, but pleased, I hugged Celine then shook Roz’s hand.
The noonday sun was bright, the day warm, so we sat under my Rainier cherry tree, sipped ginger ale, gnawed on fig bars left over from one of my ‘Free Intros,’ and chatted lightheartedly. A breeze wafted harbour hints into the yard and ruffled tree leaves. When the girls asked why the tree had no fruit, I told them crows and racoons had beaten us to it.
They laughed. “Yay, Nature!”
I grinned. Yes! Already environmentalists.
Later, we strolled down a slight hill, through a mini-park beside a stream, then over a wooden bridge into Ganges centre. I bought the girls gelato at the chocolate shop on main street. We ate it out of small plastic cups with tiny spoons while we wandered along the harbour boardwalk that skirted the Saturday Market, talking, chatting, and laughing. Neither girl, nor I, wanted to plunge into the sea of bodies massed between the market’s colourful vendors’ booths.
After an hour, we circled back to the edge of the park. I hugged Celine, shook Roz’s hand. Then they headed off to meet with Roz’s family.
At home, I went back to the adventures of private detectives Kenzie and Gennaro, but couldn’t concentrate. I sat on the couch, replaying the last hour and a half in my mind, breathing slowly, and grinning with a sense of joy I had not felt for a long time.
Two years later, Celine came to visit by herself. She set up camp in my workshop room with a blow up mattress and better gear than I’d ever had.
Wandering through the bustling Saturday market with 50+ multi-coloured, pop-up booths offering paintings, postcards, local cheese, smoked salmon, unpainted birdhouses, wind chimes, photographs, and tie-dyed everything, we stopped at a potter’s booth.
The woman ceramist, an acquaintance of mine asked Celine, “How do you know Bruce?”
With only a slight pause, Celine said, “He’s my Dad. My bio-dad.”
My legs threatened to give way. I almost burst into tears. I hugged Celine. She hugged back.
The woman stared quizzically at us. I just grinned.
*
Over the next few years, Celine visited occasionally. Sometimes alone; other times with boyfriends. One, a short, smiley, curly-haired jokester, I liked. The other, a tall, skinny, glowering longhair, not so much. I kept my concerns to myself.
I always thrilled to have Celine close to me, building a relationship, especially when we chatted about environment and ecology. She had her mom’s clear-minded sense that talking was fine, but walking the talk was critical — at least in environmental concerns.
Reconciling with Alice and reconnecting with Celine had simplified my emotional life, and heightened my sense of peace and well-being. But something intrinsic to a rich, simple, and integral life was still missing.